‘Rather more is expected of you than that,’ Gamet said drily.
The streets were virtually deserted at this time of day, the afternoon heat oppressive. Of course, even at other times, Aren was not as it once had been. Trade from the north had ceased. Apart from Malazan warships and transports, and a few fisherboats, the harbour and river mouth were empty. This was, Gamet reflected, a scarred populace.
The squad was re-emerging from the inn, carrying with them a rag-clad, feebly struggling old man. He was smeared in vomit, the little hair he had left hanging like grey strings, his skin patched and grey with filth. Cursing at the stench, the soldiers of Blistig’s Aren Guard hurried their burden towards the cart’s bed.
‘It was a miracle we found him at all,’ the commander said. ‘I truly expected the old bastard to up and drown himself.’
Momentarily unmindful of his new title, Gamet turned and spat onto the cobbles. ‘This situation is contemptible, Blistig. Damn it, some semblance of military decorum-of control, Hood take me-should have been possible…’
The commander stiffened at Gamet’s tone. The guards gathered at the back of the cart all turned at his words.
Blistig stepped close to the Fist. ‘You listen to me and listen well,’ he growled under his breath, a tremble shivering across his scarred cheeks, his eyes hard as iron. ‘I stood on the damned wall and watched. As did every one of my soldiers. Pormqual running in circles like a castrated cat-that historian and those two Wickan children wailing with grief. I watched-we all watched-as Coltaine and his Seventh were cut down before our very eyes. And if that wasn’t enough, the High Fist then marched out his army and ordered them to disarm! If not for one of my captains delivering intelligence concerning Mallick Rel being an agent of Sha’ik’s, my Guard would have died with them. Military decorum? Go to Hood with your military decorum, Fist!’
Gamet stood unmoving at the commander’s tirade. It was not the first time that he’d felt the snap of this man’s temper. Since he had arrived with Adjunct Tavore’s retinue, and was given the liaison role that took him to the forefront of dealing with the survivors of the Chain of Dogs-both those who had come in with the historian Duiker, and those who had awaited them in the city-Gamet had felt under siege. The rage beneath the mantle of propriety erupted again and again. Hearts not simply broken, but shattered, torn to pieces, trampled on. The Adjunct’s hope of resurrecting the survivors-making use of their local experience to steady her legions of untested recruits-was, to Gamet, seeming more and more unrealistic with each day that passed.
It was also clear that Blistig cared little that Gamet made daily reports to the Adjunct, and could reasonably expect his tirades to have been passed on to Tavore, in culpable detail. The commander was doubly fortunate, therefore, that Gamet had as yet said nothing of them to the Adjunct, exercising extreme brevity in his debriefings and keeping personal observations to the minimum.
As Blistig’s words trailed away, Gamet simply sighed and approached the cart to look down on the drunken old man lying on its bed. The soldiers backed away a step-as if the Fist carried a contagion. ‘So,’ Gamet drawled, ‘this is Squint. The man who killed Coltaine-’
‘Was a mercy,’ one of the guards snapped.
‘Clearly, Squint does not think so.’
There was no reply to that. Blistig arrived at the Fist’s side. ‘All right,’ he said to his squad, ‘take him and get him cleaned up-and under lock and key.’
‘Aye, sir.’
Moments later the cart was being pulled away. Gamet faced Blistig once more. ‘Your rather unsubtle plan of getting yourself stripped of rank, shackled in irons, and sent back to Unta on the first ship, will not succeed, Commander. Neither the Adjunct, nor I, care one whit for your fragile state. We are preparing to fight a war, and for that you will be needed. You and every one of your crumple-faced soldiers.’
‘Better we’d died with the rest-’
‘But you did not. We have three legions of recruits, Commander. Wide-eyed and young but ready to shed Seven Cities blood. The question is, what do you and your soldiers intend to show them?’
Blistig glared. ‘The Adjunct makes the captain of her House Guard into a Fist, and I’m supposed to-’
‘Fourth Army,’ Gamet snapped. ‘In the 1st Company at its inception. The Wickan Wars. Twenty-three years’ service, Commander. I knew Coltaine when you were still bouncing on your mother’s knee. I took a lance through the chest but proved too stubborn to die. My commander was kind enough to retire me to what he figured was a safe position back in Unta. Aye, captain of the guard in the House of Paran. But I’d damn well earned it!’
After a long moment, a wry grin twisted Blistig’s mouth. ‘So you’re as happy to be here as I am.’ Gamet grimaced, made no reply. The two Malazans returned to their horses.
Swinging himself onto the saddle, Gamet said, ‘We’re expecting the last transport of troops from Malaz Island some time today. The Adjunct wants all the commanders assembled in her council chambers at the eighth bell.’
‘To what end?’ Blistig asked.
If I had my way, to see you drawn and quartered. ‘Just be there, Commander.’
The vast mouth of the Menykh River was a brown, turgid swirl that reached half a league out into Aren Bay. Leaning on the transport’s starboard railing just behind the forecastle, Strings studied the roiling water below, then lifted his gaze to the city on the river’s north shore.
He rubbed at the bristles on his long jaw. The rusty hue of his beard in youth had given way now to grey… which was a good thing as far as he was concerned.
The city of Aren had changed little in the years since he had last seen it, barring the paucity of ships in the harbour. The same pall of smoke hanging over it, the same endless stream of sewage crawling the currents into the Seeker’s Deep-through which the broad-beamed, sluggish transport now sailed.
The newly issued leather cap chafed the back of his neck; it had damned near broken his heart to discard his old one, along with his tattered leather surcoat, and the sword-belt he’d stripped from a Falah’dan guard who no longer needed it. In fact, he had retained but one possession from his former life, buried down in the bottom of his kit bag in his berth below decks, and he had no intention of permitting its discovery by anyone.
A man came alongside him, leaned casually on the rail and stared out over the water to the city drawing ever nearer.
Strings offered no greeting. Lieutenant Ranal embodied the worst of Malazan military command. Nobleborn, commission purchased in the city of Quon, arrogant and inflexible and righteous and yet to draw a sword in anger. A walking death sentence to his soldiers, and it was the Lord’s luck that Strings was one of those soldiers.
The lieutenant was a tall man, his Quon blood the purest it could be; fair-skinned, fair-haired, his cheekbones high and wide, his nose straight and long, his mouth full. Strings had hated him on sight.
‘It is customary to salute your superior,’ Ranal said with affected indifference.
‘Saluting officers gets them killed, sir.’
‘Here on a transport ship?’
‘Just getting into the habit,’ Strings replied.
‘It has been plain from the start that you have done this before, soldier.’ Ranal paused to examine the supple, black knuckles of his gloved hands. ‘Hood knows, you’re old enough to be the father of most of those marines sitting on the deck behind us. The recruiting officer sent you straight through-you’ve not trained or sparred once, yet here I am, expected to accept you as one of my soldiers.’
Strings shrugged, said nothing.
‘That recruiting officer,’ Ranal went on after a moment, his pale blue eyes fixed on the city, ‘said she saw from the start what you’d been trying to hide. Oddly, she considered it-you, to be more precise-a valuable resource, even so much as to suggesting I make you a sergeant. Do you know why I find that odd?’